


Fortuitous

by etamiss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 02:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5726512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etamiss/pseuds/etamiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on his way to Redcliffe, Dorian runs into Fenris, who is not having the best of days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortuitous

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if this seems familiar to anyone - I posted the first part months ago before changing my mind and reworking it. Updates will be slow but fairly chunky, I hope.
> 
> The rape/noncon warning refers to past events and/or unpleasant third parties. Everything between Dorian and Fenris will be fully consensual.

Dorian's first clue that something is wrong comes in the form of a small, red-headed elf barrelling directly into his chest.

The elf looks as surprised by the collision as Dorian is when she stumbles backwards, tripping over her words and ragged skirt in equal measure. "B- Beg pardon, ser, I didn't-"

Even three weeks south of the Waking Sea, it still takes Dorian a moment to adjust to the Ferelden accent. The elf adjusts faster, however, and she backs up, eyes on Dorian's staff as she struggles to catch her breath. "You- You're a mage."

Dorian raises an eyebrow. "Well spotted."

The elf's eyes grow wide with terror. "A- Are you with them?" she asks, still out of breath but now almost pleading. "I swear, we didn't mean to leave -- there was an attack and the warrior, he told us to run so we-"

Dorian holds up his hand for silence. "I'm not with anyone," he says. Comforting panicked elves isn't really his niche but he tries to sound as soothing as possible as he peers through the trees for any sign of trouble. "Who are you running from?"

"Slavers, ser," the elf says, twisting her hands together. "I couldn't understand them but my cousin, he's good at languages and he said they were saying something about Tevinter."

"Ah." Deciding formal introductions are probably out of the question, Dorian straightens up. "And what of this warrior?"

"He came from nowhere, ser," she says, eyes huge and disbelieving. "Like a ghost, he was. Moved right through two men before they could even see him. He opened our cage and told us to flee -- they were still fighting when we ran."

She glances back over her shoulder, worrying her plump lower lip between her teeth. "I hope he's all right. There were a lot of slavers back there. Maybe I should-"

"You should keep running," Dorian says. "I'll check in on your warrior."

"Really?" The elf smiles up at him, relieved and trusting. It's not a reaction Dorian's faced in a while. "Oh, thank you, ser. Maker keep you safe!"

Gathering her skirts in one hand, she darts off again and Dorian sighs as he heads in the opposite direction. In an ideal world, he'd find empty cages, no mysterious ghost warrior, and plenty of dead slavers with coin for him to borrow, but if his travels have taught him anything, it's that the world is far from ideal.

He spots the cages from a distance, at least six ugly metal wagons whose bars poke above the bushes, and he slows his approach to assess the situation. From the muffled crying, at least one wagon of slaves remains but as he creeps closer, he can't hear any sounds of battle.

It doesn't bode well for the ghostly warrior and Dorian eases his staff from his back as he moves in, trying to determine how well it bodes for him.

As soon as he gets a look at the clearing, he decides that the copious amount of slaver corpses is a good sign. There's at least eight of them, all armed to the teeth and all torn apart, and Dorian grimaces at the gaping hole in the nearest corpse's chest as he surveys the rest of the clearing.

It's a small glade, surrounded by trees and fenced in on one side by the six slave wagons. While two are empty, the other four are filled with a mix of elves and humans, all cringing back away from the bars in fear as one of the surviving slavers paces in front of them. 

"Eyes forward, you dogs!" he spits. "Learn what happens to those who bare their teeth at their masters!"

The accent is unmistakeably Tevinter and not for the first time, Dorian wishes for a better class of countrymen. Preferably ones with less of a penchant for overdramatic threats and mindless violence.

A sharp cry draws Dorian's attention to the three other surviving slavers and more specifically to the unfortunate elf on the ground between them. He's on his knees, his face pressed into the dirt and held there by a boot on his neck, and Dorian winces as he wonders what the elf did to deserve being singled out for this treatment.

The elf thrashes, struggling helplessly as one of the slavers delivers a couple of swift kicks to his stomach, but he cries out again when the third slaver twists his arm up higher behind his back. Keeping one hand locked around the elf's wrist, the same slaver kicks his legs apart before grabbing the back of the elf's leggings and yanking them down.

Frightened murmurs ripple through the cages and the elf on the ground struggles harder. 

"No!"

It's more of a demand than a plea but the slaver's only response is to snort and kick dirt in the elf's face.

"Be thankful," the de facto leader tells the elf, still playing to the crowd. "The only reason you're still alive is because a face like that will go a long way with the whore dealers in Qarinus."

Whatever curse the elf starts to spit out is cut off by another bellow of pain when his arm is wrenched higher behind his back. 

The man crouched behind him laughs, hand slipping lower between the elf's legs, and Dorian's spell flies from his stave before he even realises he's casting.

The blast of flame to the back of the man's head is bright and unexpected. He screams, toppling backward in an effort to put out his burning hair, but Dorian follows with two more tendrils of flame which twine around the man's body, reducing him to ash in an instant.

His fellow slavers whip around in shock, cruel smiles fading to foolish panic as two quick flashes of lightning send them flying back against the nearest trees. The ground is alight before they can even get back on their feet but Dorian can't bring himself to feel any sympathy for them as he sees the elf collapse to the ground. 

The one surviving slaver charges with a furious yell, closing the distance between them quickly. It's not a bad tactic as these things go -- mages are typically more deadly from a distance -- but the solid thud of Dorian's staff against his throat seems to take the slaver by surprise. He goes down hard, aided by a kick to the back of his knee, and Dorian twirls his staff to let loose a hot jet of flame.

The ground beneath is scorched black by the time the slaver stops screaming. With a flourish, Dorian sets his staff in place on his back and turns to the wagons with a smile. 

His shoulders sag a little when the only thing he's met with is terrified silence.

"Don't worry," he says, holding his hands up, "you're safe. I've roasted quite enough people today already."

Getting no response from any of the wagons, he turns his attention to the elf on the ground. He's managed to prop himself up against the nearest rock, arm cradled against his chest, but Dorian purses his lips in sympathy when he sees the bleeding wound on the elf's head. "Are you-"

"Stay back," the elf snaps. 

Dorian isn't sure where he found a dagger but given that the elf looks about two heartbeats away from hurling it at his head, he backs off. "As you wish."

"You're a magister," the elf says. 

It's an accusation more than a question, yet one that Dorian fields easily. "Altus, actually."

From his sneer, the elf recognises the term -- Tevinter, then -- but he doesn't switch to Tevene when he says, "You've come a long way south just to pick up some slaves, _Altus_."

"I assure you," Dorian says, "picking up slaves is not on my itinerary. Locating a good bottle of wine, on the other hand…"

"Then free them," the elf orders. "All of them."

Dorian bristles at the instruction -- Fereldens may be fond of their dogs but that doesn't mean he'll tolerate being barked at as though he is one -- but the elf looks pitiful enough that he can't bring himself to argue further.

"Gladly." 

He doesn't miss the way the elf flinches back when lightning flickers at his fingertips but he doesn't comment on it as he sends out a smattering of sparks. The locks on the cages fall away, scorched and smoking, and he ducks into a half-bow when he says, "Your freedom, good sers."

The occupants of the third cage move first, a handful of elves scrambling to get out of the wagon, but the rest soon follow, jumping out of the open doors in disbelief and scattering into the woods. It's surprisingly satisfying to watch them go and Dorian basks in the pride of it for a moment before it dawns on him that not one of the captives has stopped to wait for the elf behind him.

"Nice friends you have there," Dorian says, watching the last cluster of slaves hop a log and vanish into the trees before turning back to the elf. "I-"

He closes his mouth when the elf's dagger comes to rest against his throat. 

He's shorter than Dorian, although not by much, and judging by how unsteady he is on his feet, anger is about the only thing keeping him upright. His left arm is still held to his chest and dirt is caked into his head wound as he glares up at Dorian. "Who are you?"

"Dorian, of House Pavus," Dorian says. "Altus mage, liberator of captive slaves, and occasional saviour of elves in distress."

The elf's eyes narrow. "I never asked for your help."

"Would you rather I hadn't interfered?" Dorian asks, brows raised. "I mean, being beaten and assaulted by filthy thugs isn't my personal idea of a good time but to each his-"

The dagger presses harder against his throat but it's the sudden flicker of white at the corner of his eye which shuts Dorian up. The elf is _glowing_ , he realises, the thin lines of tattoos on his hands, arms, throat, chin all lit a brilliant white, and Dorian can't hide his fascination as he stares at the arm holding the the dagger.

"So that's why no-one waited for you," he murmurs. "You're not a captive. You're the ghost warrior."

"What I am is not your concern, mage," the elf says through gritted teeth but Dorian ignores the anger in his voice. The air hums around them, the thrum of it singing through Dorian's blood, and he blinks in astonishment when he feels the mana build inside him.

"Lyrium?" he says, stunned. "That's impossible. No-one's been able to craft lyrium markings in a living vessel since…" 

The pieces clatter into place and Dorian's eyes widen in delight at his discovery. "You're him, aren't you?" he says. "The wolf Danarius created. The runaway sla-"

The elf's fist slams into his face and the world falls away before Dorian can finish his thought.

:::

Dorian wakes up tied to a tree.

If he's honest, it's neither the worst place he's woken up nor the worst thing he's been tied to, but the throbbing headache does nothing to improve the situation. He cracks each eye open in turn before attempting both at once, and frowns when he realises the sun is already setting for the day.

Fortunately, they haven't moved far. The clearing is still strewn with corpses -- Dorian spots another five to his left, bringing the total to at least sixteen -- but the elf has cleared out enough of a space to start a small fire burning. 

Grateful for the relative darkness, Dorian observes him for a moment, taking in the blood and dirt still smeared on his face, the half-hearted sling on his arm, the rigidity in the way he moves. He's hurt badly enough that Dorian is certain he could overpower him if he needed to, but that would leave an unacceptable number of questions unanswered.

Like most in the upper echelons of Tevinter society, he remembers the news of the elf's creation. It was a source of intrigue among many (and a source of resentment among a few) and every book vendor in Minrathous ran low on tomes on lyrium crafting for weeks afterwards. Despite frequent attempts, the feat was never replicated and so the elf at Danarius' side became yet another unique fascination among the magisterium.

It takes a moment of fumbling in his fogged mind for Dorian to come up with the actual name of Danarius' lyrium-infused pet but it's thoroughly satisfying when the memory clicks into place.

"Fenris."

The elf's head snaps up and Dorian smiles at his success.

"Do you still go by that name?" he asks, open and polite. "Or would you rather I address you as something else?"

The elf -- Fenris, for lack of a better name -- ignores the question. There's a greatsword on the log beside him but he bypasses it in favour of reaching for his dagger.

The ropes around Dorian's wrists burn and fall away in an instant but Dorian doesn't move from the tree.

"I have to admit," Dorian says, "I'm surprised I'm still alive. You've got quite the reputation for kiling magisters. What is it, nine at last count?"

"Twelve." Fenris' eyes glitter in the firelight when he looks up. "I thought you weren't a magister?"

"Very true," Dorian says. "Although given the number of corpses surrounding us, I doubt you're overly concerned with the rank of the people you kill."

Fenris eyes him for a long moment, clearly weighing him up, and Dorian meets his gaze, chin raised in calm defiance. 

It's Fenris who looks away first, nudging a branch further into the fire as he says simply, "I kill slavers."

"Ah," Dorian says. "As did I."

Fenris sneaks another glance at him. His hair is as bright as his markings were, falling down almost to his eyes, and he shakes it out of his face as he asks, "Why? Why did you intervene to save slaves?"

"I believe I intervened to save _you_ ," Dorian corrects. "You were the one in the most immediate jeopardy, after all. A man has to prioritise."

Fenris' voice is cold. "I can't imagine that was anything you haven't seen before."

"You have a very low opinion of the company I keep," Dorian says calmly. "I assure you, that was not something I would choose to witness or to partake in."

"Must be nice to have the choice," Fenris mutters but sets the dagger down as he gives the fire a savage poke. The log crackles as it rolls over, burnt layers crumbling into ash, and Dorian takes advantage of the silence. 

"It was a shame it ended as it did," he says, as casually as possible. "You did well against so many of them. I don't suppose you had any back-up?"

Fenris shakes his head. There's another answer hidden in his silence but Dorian can't find the right question to draw it out.

"What happened?" he tries. "How did they get the upper hand?"

"I dodged left instead of right," Fenris says. "They-" He gestures vaguely to the wound on his head, the dried blood painting his skin down to his collarbone. "I miscalculated."

Dorian winces in sympathy. "You know, that's a nasty wound. It should be cleaned out sooner rather than later if you want to avoid infection." He offers a small smile. "I could help?"

Fenris laughs sharply. "You expect me to let a blood mage near an open wound?"

"Of course not," Dorian says with a grin. "Fortunately for both of us, I'm not a blood mage."

From the look on Fenris' face, he might as well have told him that he was Andraste herself. 

"I can heal too," Dorian says, changing tactics once again. "It's not exactly my specialty -- you may need to get someone else to look at those broken ribs -- but minor injuries aren't too much trouble."

"I don't trust you," Fenris says.

"Nor do I expect you to," Dorian replies, "but I am trying to help. Also, not to belabour the point, but I did already save your life once today. I don't have much to gain by killing you now."

"You know who I am," Fenris points out. "You expect me to believe there's no price on my head in Tevinter?"

"There are prices on lots of heads in Tevinter," Dorian says. "We're a very materialistic nation." 

The joke draws no reaction from Fenris and he sighs. "Honestly, I can't even remember which magister last laid a claim to you. You're Danarius' lost treasure; people search for you in the same way they search for the Emerald Dragon of the Anderfels or the Man-Eating Fennec of Nevarra."

Fenris raises his eyebrows. "So if I'm captured, I'll be stuffed and mounted?"

"That's a very generous 'if'," Dorian says. "I'd wager most think you're dead — I certainly did. I doubt many magisters would pour resources into chasing a ghost."

Fenris stands, letting the fire crackle at his feet as he retrieves his dagger. Dorian does his best not to think about the blade being thrown at his head. 

"So if you're not here for me," Fenris says, "then what brings a magister-in-training to Ferelden?"

"I, ah-" Dorian licks his lips. "It's complicated."

"That's not an answer."

Dorian sighs. His shoulders ache from being pulled back and he rolls them as subtly as he can in the hopes that Fenris won't notice the ropes are severed.

"I'm here to visit my former mentor," he says eventually. "He may be making some bad decisions. I wish to help."

Fenris stares.

"I don't wish to help _with_ the bad decisions," Dorian says quickly. "Ideally I would help ensure all decisions are entirely positive and in no way likely to tear a hole in the fabric of reality."

He offers Fenris a winning smile. Somehow he is unsurprised when Fenris doesn't return the sentiment.

"The fabric of reality," Fenris repeats.

"Precisely," Dorian says. "So, as fascinating as you and your markings are, I have rather more pressing concerns than tracking down a runaway slave for Tevinter."

Fenris' lyrium flickers at that, a flare in the growing darkness, and Dorian swallows. "That was poor phrasing," he says. "My apologies."

The firelight glints off the dagger in Fenris' hand and Dorian finds himself holding his breath until Fenris tucks it back into its sheath. His fingers dip into a pouch on his hip and Dorian jumps when he tosses a small vial onto his lap. 

"Magebane," Fenris says. "Drink."

Dorian frowns. "I don't think-"

The dagger makes a swift reappearance. "Drink," Fenris orders. "The effects will wear off by morning but I won't spend the night waiting to be set alight in my sleep."

"Or you could let me go?" Dorian suggests. "No poison for me, no spontaneous combustion for you, everyone's happy."

Fenris shakes his head. "I don't trust you not to turn on me," he says. "I can't move fast enough to escape you in these woods and you know it. So you can take the magebane and leave, take the magebane and stay, or I can kill you now. Your choice."

"Such promising options," Dorian says sarcastically. 

He wants to point out that Fenris killing him is far from a foregone conclusion -- in their current states, he's still confident he could best him in a duel -- but finds himself holding his tongue when he takes a fresh look at his potential enemy. 

Fenris is clearly exhausted, covered in blood and dirt from the earlier fight and barely managing to stay upright, and Dorian finds that he can't begrudge him the small amount of security that magebane provides.

Besides, he reasons, it would be a nice change to have company for once. (Even if said company is a lethal ex-slave with a serious head injury and an apparent hatred of all Tevinter mages.)

"All right," he relents. "I'll take it."

Fenris' lips curve in a half-smile. "Wise choice."

"Not something I'm often accused of," Dorian says. He picks up the magebane from his lap, shaking the ropes off his wrists as he does so, and smiles, impressed by the complete lack of reaction on Fenris' face. "When did you know?"

"Soon enough," Fenris says. "I wanted to see how long you'd stay there."

Dorian rolls his sore shoulders. "Well? Did I pass your test?"

"You're still alive," Fenris says by way of an answer. "Now drink."

With a long-suffering sigh, Dorian uncorks the vial. It smells foul but familiar, an unwelcome reminder of his physical training lessons as a teenager, and he sends up a quick prayer for it not to be (more) poisoned before he downs it in two gulps.

"Ugh." His tongue feels unpleasantly lumpy afterwards and he reaches for his water with a grimace. "I've definitely drunk more pleasant poisons."

His head pounds as he pushes himself to his feet and he rubs absently at his temples. Fenris moves to the other side of the campfire, still looking suspicious, and Dorian rolls his eyes. "You know, it's going to be difficult to clean that head wound with you all the way over there."

Fenris frowns. "I don't need-"

"Medical attention or basic hygiene?" Dorian guesses. "Yes, that seems to be the national motto around these parts. Now sit," he orders, then remembers Fenris' past and adds, "Please."

Fenris complies, sinking to a log with a poorly concealed wince. He shifts his injured arm in its sling, visibly struggling to stay on the defensive, and Dorian gathers up the water flasks before settling on the log next to Fenris. 

Fenris is still and silent as Dorian pours water onto a cloth and reaches up to wipe the dried blood off his face. There are marks beneath the blood, bruises from fists and fingers, but Dorian frowns when he sees the deep scar running down Fenris' forehead and through his right eyebrow. "That looks deep."

"It was," Fenris says. 

To Dorian's annoyance, he doesn't offer any further information but as he reaches back up to wipe away the dirt, he's pleased to see that the more recent head wound seems to have stopped bleeding for now. 

Cleaning the blood from Fenris' jawline proves slightly more challenging and he lifts Fenris' chin higher with two fingers as he says, "I just need to-"

Fenris flinches at the contact. Even the faintest brush against his markings makes the lyrium sing through Dorian's nerves and despite the magebane, he can feel his mana welling when he pulls away. "What-"

"Don't touch me," Fenris snaps.

Dorian nods. "Noted." He soaks the cloth again and is sure to catch Fenris' eyes before making a move. "May I continue?"

He takes the lifting of Fenris' chin as assent and cleans the rest of the blood and dirt off his collarbone as quickly as he can, keeping the barrier of the cloth between his hands and Fenris' skin at all times. 

"Better," Dorian says. "Fortunately for both of us, I don't think you require stitches, although I'd like to make sure that wound is cleansed properly once I have my magic back."

Fenris curls his injured arm closer to his chest, pulling away from Dorian. "You will not use your magic on me."

Dorian sighs. "Please don't tell me you're one of those." At Fenris' frown, he explains, "One of those 'all magic is evil' types. I'd expect it from some of these backwater Fereldans who panic if they go more than an hour without seeing a dog but you've been to the Imperium. You must have seen the wonders magic can accomplish."

Fenris' markings flicker blue as he says, voice icy, "I'm one of those wonders, aren't I?"

"I'm not sure that's the phrase I'd use," Dorian admits. His gaze lingers on the markings, curiosity hammering at the bounds of his propriety, but the bloodied corpses of the slavers stop him from reaching out to touch them. "The man was dedicated, I'll give him that. Utterly mad, of course, but to be able to craft lyrium into flesh…" 

Fenris stands up abruptly, shoulders hunched in as he moves to crouch on the opposite side of the fire. "I suppose I should be honoured?"

"Again, not the phrase I'd use," Dorian says. "It's astonishing that you survived. No-one's been able to replicate it since."

"Are you hoping to pick up tips?" Fenris says with a sneer. "Get some advice from Danarius' success story before you go back and carve up your own slaves?"

"Absolutely not," Dorian promises. "Inflicting that on someone -- and a slave, no less -- it's abhorrent." He eyes Fenris across the fire, watches the nervous glow of the lyrium. "I take it they're painful?"

Fenris' lips thin. "It's not your business."

Dorian holds his hands up. "Just friendly concern."

Fenris' laugh is sharp. "From a Tevinter mage? There is no such thing."

Dorian rolls his eyes. "We're not all evil incarnate, you know. I, for one, am perfectly pleasant."

"Are you?" Fenris lifts his head, watching him across the flames. "How many slaves do you own?"

"Personally? None," Dorian says, "but my family owns some and they're treated well."

"Really." It's more sarcasm than question and Fenris' eyes stay fixed on him as he asks, "How many times have your overseers gone too far and beaten someone to death? Are there locks on the doors of the slave quarters or can the guards just walk in whenever they want a hole to fuck? Do your stewards actually kill the families of slaves who don't wish to warm your bed or do they just threaten to?"

Dorian can't help the flare of outrage at the accusations. "None of that happens in our household. My father wouldn't stand for it."

Fenris laughs. "It happens in every household, _Altus_. You and your father just turn a blind eye."

Biting down on his anger, Dorian slips back under the familiar mask of superiority. "Clearly your time in Danarius' household has given you a warped view of the world. Understandable, I suppose, but still a pity."

Fenris glowers at him but Dorian perseveres. "I'm under no illusions that my homeland is perfect but neither is it the festering hub of villainy so many have come to believe. There are bad apples, as there are everywhere, but also many good men."

"Like you, I suppose?"

"I expect I'm less unpleasant than your former master," Dorian says with a smile, "although that is a dreadfully low bar. But no, I make no particular claims to virtue."

Fenris shakes his head, staring into the fire as though it's personally offended him, and Dorian is careful to keep his movements slow as he gets to his feet. "So, do you intend to let me set that arm?"

Fenris looks at him as though he just suggested amputation, cradling his arm against his chest, and Dorian sighs. "Please don't give me that wounded animal look. We both know it's broken."

"I don't need your help," Fenris mutters.

"If that were the case, you would've set it yourself after you'd knocked me out," Dorian says. "My head feels fine by the way. Perhaps the black eye and potential concussion will help me blend in with the locals. I can say a shoddily constructed barn fell on me."

It doesn't come as a surprise when Fenris ignores his complaints. "You can set it?"

"I can," Dorian promises. "I can't heal the bone — you'll need to wait for that to mend itself — but I can at least help you get movement in all your fingers again."

Based on the guilty expression which flashes across Fenris' face, he clearly thought he'd hidden the extent of his injury and Dorian takes advantage of the pause to settle on his knees beside him. "May I?"

It's a pleasant surprise when Fenris slips down to sit cross-legged and pulls off his sling. Night has been creeping in around them, the sky now an inky blue, and Dorian almost conjures fire to help him see before he remembers that he's supposed to be under the influence of magebane.

"Hold it up," he says, grasping Fenris' wrist. He's still wearing a gauntlet on his right arm but his left is bare and thin in comparison, covered in swirls of white lyrium. It lines his palm and fingers, cool and dormant where his skin touches Dorian's, but Dorian can still feel its hum as his mana builds inside him once again.

Fenris grits his teeth when Dorian grips his elbow with his other hand and Dorian fumbles for something reassuring to say. "At least it hasn't broken the skin?"

Fenris' stare is close to murderous and Dorian swallows. "Possibly not the best time to look on the bright side, I admit. Are you ready?"

Fenris nods.

"All right," Dorian says. While he may not have set a bone before, he's definitely encountered people who seem like they would know how and he aims for that level of confidence when he counts down, "Three, two-"

He pulls before he gets to one.

Fenris' pained yell is louder than he was expecting. Fenris curls in on himself, inches away from collapsing to the ground, and he gasps for breath as the bone shifts beneath the skin. 

It's not there yet, not quite, and Dorian rests a hand on Fenris' lowered head as he says, "It's close. Hold on."

Fenris presses a hand to his own mouth and Dorian steels himself as he gives his arm another firm wrench. Even without his magic, he can feel the bone slot back into place and he looks up with a proud smile. "There. Now we just need a splint and-"

His pride switches to panic when Fenris slumps against him. "Ah."

He shuffles backwards, trying to get a better look at Fenris' face, and is relieved to find that he's still breathing. His cheeks are pale, the combination of pain, shock and exhaustion finally getting the better of him, and Dorian lowers him the rest of the way to the ground while he takes stock of the situation.

It doesn't take him long to conclude that leaving would be the sensible decision. Spending the night alone in the woods with fifteen corpses and the lyrium-powered ex-slave responsible for most of those corpses is idiotic, even by Ferelden standards, and so he gets to his feet with a yawn.

He's barely taken two steps before Fenris stirs. 

He doesn't wake, not really, just inches closer to the fire and curls up small on the ground, tucking his broken arm against his chest for protection. He shivers, tremors running through his shoulders, and once again Dorian finds himself bidding farewell to the sensible decision.

"I know you're doing this on purpose," he tells Fenris as he trudges over to retrieve a cloak from one of the corpses. "I've read these novels. The brave and dashing hero runs into a handsome stranger with a mysterious past and circumstances conspire so that they're forced to sleep together for warmth." He yanks the cloak off the rigid corpse. "Utter tripe, the lot of them. I'm not falling for it."

Fenris doesn't react to his complaints but he starts awake when Dorian leans over him, cloak in hand. "No-"

"It's only me," Dorian says, draping the cloak over him as best he can. 

Fenris' eyes are glassy when he looks up, even as the shivering lessens, and Dorian winces in sympathy. "You look terrible. Get some sleep. I'll-"

Fenris passes out again.

"I'll just stand here and bask in your overwhelming gratitude," Dorian finishes with a sigh. "That seems fair."


End file.
